A Tourney to end all Tourneys
by hellcatfighter
Summary: The Tourney at Harrenhal lasted ten days. Ten days that changed everything. A story of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne, and how a simple act led to a Rebellion and an end of a dynasty.
1. A Start

The mud squelched under the hooves of the horses.

"Ground's too soft for jousting." Observed Eddard, glaring moodily into the mist. "Maybe we should turn back?"

"Turn back now after seven days of hard travel? Surely you jest, little brother. Some optimism might be nice for once!' Laughed Brandon Stark, the tall, ruggedly handsome heir to Winterfell. "This Tourney will be the biggest ever held, and I'm most certain that Walter Whent will disappoint many if it is called off due to a speck of mud. Besides, are you not anxious to meet all the fair Southern ladies who will come see the spectacle? Perhaps the shy, quiet Eddard Stark might even deem it opportune to take some pretty lady's maidenhood, hmm?"

"Brother! Don't tease poor Ned, he's already quiet enough to start with. And it's not chivalrous to speak of such...unpleasant things in the presence of a lady."

Brandon scoffed. "Lady, my pretty arse. Shouldn't a lady be riding in a carriage?"

Lyanna Stark, seated upon a pale horse, glared daggers at her elder brother, who responded with an innocent look. "Come, Ned. Let's not talk to the infamous deflowerer of maidens. Race you to the bridge!" The girl not yet seventeen suddenly yanked on her horse's reins, dress billowing around her knees as she took off towards the distant crossing.

Eddard could only give a helpless shrug to his brother before chasing after Lyanna, a little smile dancing across his lips.

Benjen, the smallest of the four, turned his eyes hopefully towards the eldest.

"No."

Benjen slumped in his saddle, gazing dejectedly at the galloping horses.

Brandon scrapped off a piece of mud off his boot. "Kids." He grumbled, before turning back to the other Northmen. "Ethan! You didn't become my squire for being slow! Catch up, will you?"

"Sorry sire!" Ethan Glover, glanced helplessly at the knightly equipment weighing down his horse. With a sigh, he nudged his weary companion onwards.

It was a beautiful spring, with flowers blooming and babies wailing. Winter was at its end.

* * *

 **It's amazing how the internet can influence us. I read A Song of Ice and Fire two years ago, and lost interest in the TV show around Season 3 due to exams). I don't specifically remember how, but I picked up on the Ashara Dayne=Jon Snow's mom theory on the internet two days ago, and it definitely piqued my interest, and so this story was born.**

 **What I love most about ASoIaF is its scale and its endless number of untold stories. There are some many plots left open, and I doubt George R.R. Martin will be able to close all of them, which allows for so much speculation. Kudos to GRRM for creating such a fabulous fantasy world for us to play in, even if he does not support fanfiction.**

 **The pre-book world allows for so much character development, with little said about them in the books. I hope I can do GRRM and the characters justice, as this story will follow canon. I will follow canon to the best of my ability, so I hope you readers (much more knowledgeable about this universe than this writer) can correct me as much as possible about deviations. Of course, anything else is fair play and I hope you will enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it.**

 **Thousand thanks for reading, and please review!**


	2. A Gathering

It was two more days before the spires of Harrenhal appeared in the mist. Though the five towers of Harrenhal could never stand proud again after the burning by the dragons, their sheer size still took the breath away. Benjen claimed that he had read the castle was built for giants, not men. Though Brandon scoffed, Eddard thought it was not out of the realm of possibility.

Under Harrenhal's dark, gloomy shadow, colorful tents were scattered across the field, with standards waving proudly under the gentle breeze. The servants of House Whent were still busy carrying out the finishing touches to the jousting lanes. A great din could be heard far away from the sprawling tent city.

As one, the Northern contingent slowed to a halt a short distance away from the spectacle, as if almost unsure of its place. Two hundred strong, with Starks, Karstarks, Cerwyns, Dustins, Mormonts, Manderlys, and Umbers, in truth most had no experience of jousting. The North frowned upon such Southern prancing and pivoting, such that only Brandon Stark, Mark Ryswell and William Dustin were to enter the lists. The Boltons and Flints had even declined their invitations, stating disinterest. For the Reeds, an invitation was sent, with no reply. However, most Houses were still keen on the melee. Theo Wull and Martyn Cassel, famed duelists in the North, had joined the main group three days into their journey. But all had stopped and bunched together in solidarity, peering suspiciously at the jovial southerners.

"Lords! Sers! Welcome, welcome to Harrenhal!" Beaming from head to toe, Walter Whent marched purposefully towards his guests. "I'm sure you had a pleasant journey?" Met with wary nods, the head of House Whent carried on happily. "Whether your journey was smooth or not, it is of no significance now. I can from now on promise you ten days of unrelenting joy and happiness!"

"Except for those whose heads get bashed in the melee." Benjen murmured, receiving an elbow from Eddard.

"Come now! We have already set up your tents." Walter Whent was almost bouncing up and down with excitement as he guided the Northmen towards the uncountable tents . "Grand, is it not? All the people in the Seven Kingdoms gathered under Harrenhal!"

All the people in the Seven Kingdoms indeed. Not only the nobility, but the peasantry had turned out in full force to witness this grand gathering. Merchants with their wares had clogged the Kingsroad, while mummers and singers streamed towards Harrenhal for the chance to make their names famous all across Westeros. Eddard was even convinced he had seen a red priest clad in armour during their approach.

The Nobility themselves had spared no expense in showcasing their wealth and status. Knights clad in glittering armour,with freshly painted sigils on their shields, rode majestically beside the extravagant carriages of the wives and daughters. The retinue of one Southern Lord, consisting of squires, pages, servants and ladies-in-waiting, was already larger than the whole Northern party. The peasantry gazed in awe as they clattered past, with maidens chattering excitedly at the sight of another handsome knight.

As the Northern party entered the tent city, Eddard noticed the large number of tents allocated to each house. There were too many sigils for Eddard to recognize them all, but he could glean that every major house had sent someone of significance.

From the Westerlands, the golden lion of House Lannister fluttered upon a pole. Three men-at-arms with House Marbrand's flaming tree strolled past in the opposite direction. A Knight encoated with the six shells of Westerling, a House rich no more, had to endure the jeers of commoners with his mismatched set of armour. A mountainous man with a sigil of three dogs on a yellow background glared dangerously at anyone who dared approach. Eddard was almost sure he was a bannermen of the Lannisters, but he could not put his finger on which. Benjen seemed surprised about the notable absence of House Reyne and Tarbeck, before being quietly reminded by Lyanna that Tywin Lannister had killed them all.

Eddard was most surprised that the Ironborn had deemed the occasion large enough to send anyone of note. The men from the Iron Islands looked down on tourneys even more than the Northmen, with longships being the preferred choice for war rather than horses. Still, he could see men with the golden kraken gathered around a steaming pot.

The men of the Vale was always a welcome sight with Eddard after his wardship there. Though far off at the edge of the sprawling tents, Eddard could recognize the sky-blue falcon of House Arryn anywhere. The banners of House Royce fluttered on Arryn's right, while the broken wheel of Waynwood stood proudly on its left. Other houses of the Vale Eddard could see, Hunter and Grafton, but most were too far off to be recognizable.

The Reach was always in for a good jousting, Brandon jested, and Eddard could only agree. It was almost if every house of the Reach had turned up. The flowery knights of House Tyrell puffed out their chests to entice the swooning and fawning of the ladies, alongside the leering archers of House Tarly. A man with the apple of House Fossoway greeted another with the prominent ears of a Florent heartily.

In a moment of rare courteousness, Brandon Stark nodded his head respectfully to a petite woman still beautiful, but was now showing her age. The lady responded with a half-smile and a wave.

"Don't you just flirt with everything on two legs?" Benjen smirked, receiving a smack on the head in return.

"She's Olenna Redwyne, now of Tyrell, silly."

Benjen stared back blankly. "So?"

Brandon shook his head distastefully. "I suggest you tread lightly around the Queen of Thorns."

The number of Riverlords rivaled those of the Reach. On their home ground, the Rivermen were determined to show their best. Besides the Whents and the ever present Freys, the sighting of the trout of House Tully brought a grimace to Brandon's face.

Lyanna snickered beside him. "Thinking about your betrothed? I almost feel sorry for her. I'd hate to upset her with another bastard."

Brandon gave her the evil eye while Eddard brought a tight smile to bear.

"How about the Blackfish? Will he come?" Benjen chattered excitedly on his horse.

"Brynden Tully?" Eddard replied, "I doubt he'll be interested. Besides, he still has bad blood with Hoster Tully. Come now, we won't reach our tents if we look for every famous knight."

The Northern company passed by the exotic Dorish with their outlandish armour. The Northmen were uncomfortable with the warm weather, but some Dorish still looked uneasy even with a few more layers of clothing on them. The Sun and Spear of House Martell was the most prominent, with Houses Allyrion, Manwoody and Qorgyle to its flanks. The falling star of Dayne was right next to the main tent of the Martells.

"Where are the Targaryens?" Benjen wondered aloud.

"Not here." A booming voice answered, followed by the womanly laughter from the many admirers of the speaker.

A rare true smile appeared on Ned's face. Leaping down from his horse, he was immediately forced into a crushing embrace. "Foster brother! It's been too long!"

Eddard's face was smudged into the broad chest of a man six feet six. "Nice to see you too, Robert." He choked out.

The Lord of Storm's End beamed happily. "Stannis! Get your arse over here and I'll introduce you to Ned!"

"It's Ser Baratheon, Robert." Stannis said icily, grinding his teeth. Though tall and well-built, the second of the Baratheon brothers, even more humorless now after the drowning of his parents three years ago, was still dwarfed by the monstrosity that was Robert.

"No long faces here, brother! Say hello to Ned!" Robert slapped Stannis on the back so hard he almost tripped.

"My lord of Stark."

"Ser Baratheon." Eddard inclined his head respectfully.

"And who's here? Ah, Brandon and Benjen! Welcome to the Stormlands!"

"It's not the Stormlands, brother."

"It's what I say it is, Stannis dearest. Is this not the land of the Stormlords?"

Eddard noted that Robert was technically correct. He could glimpse the griffin of Connington and the lightning of Dondarrion, along with those of Houses Selmy and Tarth.

"Now, now, who's here?" Robert's eyes twinkled as they turned to the female Stark. Eddard recognized that glint, and was instantly uneasy.

"My sister, Lyanna Stark. Lyanna, Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End."

Lyanna courtesyed ontop of her horse, no mean feat. Robert bowed deeply in return, eyes always on Lyanna. "Who knew Starks were capable of such beauty?" Robert exclaimed as he kissed the offered hand, lingering far longer than necessary. The womanly entourage behind Robert all signed audibly.

Brandon exchanged a sharp look with Eddard, and cleared his throat. "Apologies, Robert, but we must move on. Mayhaps a later time?"

"Yes, yes, certainly," Robert replied, eyes still on Lyanna, "Later then."

The sun was setting when the Northmen arrived at their tents. After a quick supper, most retired, claiming to be weary of the long journey. At the end, Lyanna forcibly dragged Benjen off to sleep, leaving Eddard and Brandon poking at the fire, sitting in companionable silence, waiting for the brighter day.


	3. A King

Eddard woke to the sound of trumpets, loud, noisy, and irritating. He scrambled out of his tent, knowing the sound of military trumpets only meant one thing. _Targaryens._

Brandon's foul mood could only mean he had woken up far too early for his liking. He spat into the dying embers of last night's fire. "Fucking Targaryens. No respect for the sleeping. Can't they be content with the whole of Westeros already? Now they intrude into the realm of Dreaming?"

"Calm, brother. Some might think your words to be treasonous talk."

Brandon smirked. "Poor Ned. Always worrying, always tactful." He spat again. "What difference is the dragon from the direwolf if both our helpful pets have died out? The North has never bent its knee willingly, and the North _always_ remembers."

"Then we best remember that we did bend our knees, willingly or unwillingly."

Brandon stared at him, then looked away. "I find your lack of faith in the North...disturbing. Have you ever not gone by the rules for once?"

Eddard cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You don't need to answer that. I'll just go wake Benjen. You, Lya."

Eddard stepped into the cool shade of his sister's tent. Lyanna lay on the bed, hair tousled, spread-eagled, the blankets on the floor. She was every inch the wild beauty like the winter roses she enjoyed so much. Eddard had never dared raise a sword against her, but Brandon was only too eager to put her to the sword whenever father was away. It ended soon enough when an ugly bruise was discovered by Lord Rickard Stark on Lyanna, caused by a rather severe hit by Brandon's wooden sword. Still, Eddard could never forget the beauty in her passion and hot-bloodedness during swordplay, as she jumped back and forth to parry Brandon's lunges.

A few strands of black hair had crept into the corners of her mouth. As Eddard gently brushed them away, she woke with a start. And promptly crashed back down. "It was such a pleasant dream! You just had to ruin it!"

"What of it?"

"None of your concern." A faint blush danced across her cheeks. "Leave. Now."

"Don't you want to see the Targaryens?"

"I will. When I what to. Leave or face the wrath of the She-Wolf." Eddard wisely left.

It was not until pots were steaming and mouthwatering scents filled the air that Lyanna emerged from her tent. Benjen, sitting on a log, scooted over to make space for her. "What are we waiting for? The Targaryens might have settled already!"

Brandon smiled. "What has the maester been teaching you? Seven blares of the trumpet means the sighting of a royal party, not its arrival. Still plenty of time for us to break our fast." Lyanna gratefully accepted the bowl of porridge from her eldest brother.

The Starks ate in silence. Passing ladies sent questioning glares at Lyanna, dressed in a blue dress, sitting on a log alongside her brothers. The collective glares of the Northmen sent them all scurrying away.

As time passed, the excitement of the crowds grew to an almost audible hum. The Starks mounted their horses and trotted towards the Kingsroad. The horses gave them a distinct height advantage over the peasantry, who had to fight for a glimpse of the approaching royals.

First came the standard bearer and the herald. A few sharp blasts quieted the crowd. On top of his chestnut horse, with the blood red three-headed dragon as a fitting background, the herald proclaimed, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men…"

The rest was drowned out the murmurs of the crowd.

"Aerys? Here? Impossible!" Eddard heard one old lady exclaim.

But the evidence was there. The full Kingsguard rode in front of the procession, six in number. It was known that the seventh, Harlan Grandison, had passed away in his sleep. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, led the wedge at its tip, with three on his right and two on his left. To his left, Ser Oswell Whent, clad in white, except for the black bat adorning his helmet. Ser Jonothor Darry, a white shield, unblemished, held in his hand. To his right, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Greatsword Dawn slung across his back. Further down, another Dorishman, Prince Lewyn Martell, famed for having a paramour despite his vows. Lastly, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, hero of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Benjen gaped with his mouth wide open. He turned angrily to Brandon, who had kicked him. "Practise your swordplay well, and you might just become one. On second thought, you might not want to become a Kingsguard."

"Why?" Benjen was genuinely puzzled.

Brandon wiggled his eyebrows. "Then you won't get to practise your, ah, other sword." A few septas turned reproachfully, scandalized.

Then, the Second of his Name, King Aerys Targaryen himself. There were shocked gasps. A man in his forties, the King looked more like in his seventies. His beard and hair was unwashed and matted. Foodstuff remained tangled in his long white beard. Yellow fingernails, so long they had started to curl. Thin and gaunt, hunched upon his destrier, it was almost as if the golden crown on his head was weighing him down.

To his side, in direct comparison, Rhaegar Targaryen sat tall in the saddle, staring straight ahead. Every inch the Prince he was, handsome, beautiful even, with striking purple eyes, long white hair billowing back in the breeze. His black armour was polished to the point that it shone. Lyanna sighed beside him, and even Eddard thought that this was a man he would go beyond the Wall .

Then came ranks of Targaryen men-in-arms marching in cadence, five hundred strong. The carriages of the Queen and Princess Elia Martell rolled past. All openings were firmly covered with red cloth. Members of the Royal Court next, then the numerous retinue of every newcoming Lord or Lady. Finally, a rearguard, also five hundred strong. It was already mid-day when all that was left was the dust raised by marching boots.

Benjen yipped excitedly, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. "What next?"

"Now we wait," Brandon raised a hand to cover his yawn. "Some time later, after the dragons have settled, the opening ceremony for the Tourney will begin. Then the real fun begins."


	4. A Star

The Sun was three-fourths through the sky, when another trumpet note sounded, this time a long extended one. Eddard put down the book he was reading. A rather interesting read, he might add, about the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

He pushed past the flaps of the tent, and saw Brandon talking with a young lady, the hand on her back much lower than protocol, and still creeping downwards. Eddard discreetly cleared his throat. The lady, pretty enough, startled, and after a quick curtsy, snuck away.

Brandon scowled. "It's not a crime to talk with a lady."

"Which house?"

"That's not-"

"Which house?'

Brandon grumbled under his breath. "Mooton."

"A Riverlands one? My, that takes a lot of guts, even for you."

"You're not my fucking septa."

"What would Hoster Tully say, if you sired a bastard, with a Riverlands lady no less?"

Brandon stalked off.

"What would father say?"

Brandon stopped and turned, eyes blazing as he advanced, poking a finger into Eddard's chest.

"Do not, DO NOT bring father into this. It was his damned fault from the start!"

Eddard opened his mouth with a sharp jab on his tongue, then suddenly realized that they had attracted a curious crowd, and clamped his mouth shut. The flickering eyes of Brandon told him that his brother had noticed the same thing. The finger on chest turned into a firm grip on his forearm as Brandon led them both back into the tent Eddard had only exited a short while earlier.

In relative privacy, Brandon flopped onto Eddard's bed. He huffed and ran a hand through his wild hair. "Sorry, Ned. It's just...I just...I can't believe that all my life, I was just a pampered fat sow, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder." Brandon looked Eddard in the eye. It was the most sincere Brandon had ever looked for a long time. "And it was father who sold me. To a lady trout I have not yet even met."

Eddard was uncomfortable under his brother's rare serious look. "You are heir to Winterfell, the future Warden of the North. For the good of the North...every man has his own duty."

Brandon smiled. It was a sad smile. In his eighteen years, Eddard had seen his brother exuberant, passionate, and full of wrath, but never pensive. "Sometimes I feel Benjen is the most blessed, among us four. Yes, his lands may be the smallest, his power may be the weakest, but he will be the most free of us all."

"Then what?"

"What what?"

"If you were free, then what?"

"I would...live a life that is mine to choose."

Eddard stoically remarked, "No one escapes from Duty. Not even Benjen."

"Yes, no escapes their responsibility. But Benjen will get to choose what his responsibility is, no?"

Eddard had no reply.

Brandon blew out a breath and laughed. "Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the paladin of honour and duty. Come, let's go to the Opening Ceremony, meet pretty ladies, and forget this talk occurred. This Tourney may be the last time I may eat and whore to my heart's content, and I intend to enjoy it."

Brandon was just about to push away the tent flaps, when he stopped and faced Eddard again. "I just realized this. If I die, won't you need to marry the Tully girl? You know, for duty and honour and all that?"

He smirked when Eddard could not meet his eyes.

Lyanna, who had changed into an elaborate green dress, raised a quizzical eyebrow when the Stark brothers were late to their seats, but said nothing. The Opening of the Tourney took place in the Melee arena, a large sandy oval ground surrounded by stands, an amphitheatre of sorts, only far larger. The stands were all draped with summer colors, with vibrant banners hanging overhead. The Starks and most of the Northmen were seated directly across the Royal booth.

Lord Walter Whent was rambling on on how honoured his House was on the attendance of King Aerys Targaryen the Second. Even Aerys himself, a man only too eager to receive praise, seemed bored, nodding absentmindedly. Eddard's attention drifted to the man seated to his right, Crown Prince Rhaegar. There was such a large difference between father and son, that the only explanation was that they were not. But the indigo eyes and white hair of Valyrian blood, evident on both men, practically screamed out to those nearby that they were related. However, Aerys' violet eyes were glazed and unfocused, while those of Rhaegar were sharp and attentive. Aerys' unkempt white hair seemed to reflect his age, the well-groomed long flowing hair of Rhaegar only reflected his stunning beauty and supreme self-confidence. Most ladies in the crowd seemed more intent on Rhaegar rather than Whent's long-winding speech. To Eddard's right, Benjen was already poking fun at Lyanna's rapt attention on Rhaegar.

Two ladies sat to Rhaegar's right, heads together, almost if sharing an inside joke. As one, they threw their heads back and laughed. Eddard could tell both were Dorish, with their loose dresses that laid their arms bare. The one directly to Rhaegar's left was slender and beautiful. However, her beauty only emphasized her frailness, a willow weed that would easily break under the wind. Pretty though she was, she was only a sunflower next to the blazing inferno of a star.

She could have been mistaken as a Targaryen for her haunting violet eyes, but for her silky black hair, which framed her face oh so perfectly. The other Dorish woman had the bronzed skin of the Martells, but her companion had the pale face of Southern ladies, which only further accented her full lips. Though more tight-lipped than her companion, her eyes sparkled with laughter and joy.

For the first time in his ten-and-eight years, Eddard Stark of Winterfell's heart was in his mouth. Sure, there were a few lovely Northern women, but none had caught young Eddard's eye. Besides, most had already been claimed by an elder brother. Of course, he had kissed one or two in the stables, but they were all under forced coercion of a said over helpful brother, and he had lost interest soon after. So even Eddard Stark himself could not say he had fallen in love before.

Even now, he was not sure. Was this love, or only physical attraction to a beautiful face? Already his thoughts had turned to what she would feel like beneath the sheets. Eddard flushed a deep red, trying desperately to cleanse his thoughts before Brandon could catch up and torment him with merciless teasing.

He quickly glanced at the eldest Stark, who he realized also had his eyes set on the Royal box.

"What?" snapped Brandon, irritated, when Eddard nudged him.

"Who-" Eddard's throat was dry. He quickly swallowed and continued, "Who's that?"

"Hmm? Oh, her? Elia Martell, wife to Prince Rhaegar. Why ask?"

Eddard had deduced as much. "No, the one next to her."

A sly smile crept on Brandon's face. "Oh, her." He winked at Eddard. "A stunner, right?"

Eddard flushed again. He knew the look on Brandon's face, that predatory gleam. For once, Eddard was jealous of his brother's easy looks and well-built frame.

Brandon looked at him strangely. "You alright? You've gone all tight-lipped again."

Eddard choked out, "I'm fine."

The sly calculating look returned to Brandon's face, but this time it was directed at Eddard.

Wrapping a friendly arm around his brother's tight shoulders, Brandon said, "My dear brother, that, is Ashara Dayne, lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia Martell, sister to Arthur Dayne, and the heartthrob of men all across Westeros."

Leaning closer, he whispered, "I'm proud of you, brother. You aim high. Though I may be a self-proclaimed ladies' man, but I never steal from family. I swear on the godswood back at Winterfell, from one Wolf to another, that Ashara Dayne is all yoursl."

Eddard brushed him off, face burning. "I have no idea what you speak of."

Brandon grinned and clapped Eddard on the back. "Trust me, I know when a Wolf is in heat."

The rest of Ceremony was a blur. Lord Walter Whent's daughter was proclaimed the queen of love and beauty, and swords were raised by her brothers and her uncle, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, to defend her honor. Some Lannister with golden hair became the new Kingsguard, but Eddard did not care. He only had eyes for the lady with dark hair and pale skin, the lady as beautiful as a falling star.


	5. A Crannogman

Eddard had returned to reading. At least, he had tried hard to. But now, the King-Beyond-the-Wall had proved far less interesting than violet eyes.

The Starks had split up after the Ceremony. Lyanna to Gods know where, Benjen had followed Ethan Glover on a walk around the tent city, while Brandon had gone 'to fulfil my role as heir to Winterfell by exchanging social pleasantries' with some Lords, but in truth mostly ladies. Eddard had no interest in playing chaperone to any of the three, and promptly proclaimed that he was retiring to his tent to catch up with his reading. Brandon had raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing.

 _It was said by some that The Horned Lord used magic to pass the Wall...hair as black as night, violet eyes twinkling in the sunlight-_

Eddard squeezed his eyes shut, Maester Herryk's _History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall_ closed with a snap.

When he opened his eyes again, a woman stood before Eddard. For a moment, he remembered his manners and thought of scrambling up, _Lady Dayne-_ , before realizing the woman in front of him had grey eyes and was much more petite.

Lyanna grabbed Eddard's arm and forcibly dragged him from his seat. "I need your help, Ned."

It was not like Lyanna to ask for help. In her youth, when she first learnt horse riding, she resolutely refused all helping hands if she had tumbled from her horse. Brushing off worried enquiries, she would march silently back to her horse and start over again. From early on, Lyanna expected no help from her elder brothers, and both Eddard and Brandon wisely gave her none.

The look on her face was hard, and her grip was tighter than necessary. Eddard knew she was angry. Brandon's rage burned bright, and as great flames do, often burned out quickly. Lyanna's anger was like razor-sharp ice, full of frosty silences and lightning-quick cuts, and slow to melt. Benjen had endured a week of icy looks and non-communication before breaking down and tearfully apologizing for having broken her vase of winter roses. Eddard felt sorry for those who faced her wrath.

The first thing Eddard noticed when they entered Lyanna's tent was Benjen sitting on a chest nibbling a lemon cake. Then, he saw a boy, not yet a man with his short and skinny stature, asleep peacefully in Lyanna's bed. The linen around his arm was stained with what only could be blood. He looked familiar, but Eddard could not place a name.

"Wait for me, I still need to find Brandon." With a swish of her skirts, Lyanna stepped out of the tent.

Eddard looked at Benjen with a question on his face. Benjen shrugged and continued to munch happily on his lemon cake.

"Lya, you do not say to Lady Swann 'Another time.' I won't see her another time so how will I even get into her-oh."

Brandon took in the sight of the boy on the bed, and immediately smirked. "I never knew you had it in you, Lya. The walls are breached, the portcullis is broken, the-ow!"

"It's Howland Reed, from the Neck. I met him two winters ago, at the feast in Barrowton. Just now, he was set on by three squires, and wounded his arm. Just so you know, my maidenhood is also perfectly fine, brother dearest."

The boy stirred at the sound of his name, and sat up groggily. Though short, Eddard realized that the boy's age was closer to his than he had thought.

"He fought them off?"

"I fought them off." Lyanna corrected. "With a tourney sword." No one raised any doubts.

In a moment of clarity, the boy's eyes widened, and leapt out of bed, bending his knee. Eddard could see the boy wincing. The patch of red was spreading through the linen.

"Silly you, you've reopened the wound!" Lyanna moved towards the boy, holding a roll of linen in her hand.

The boy looked alarmed, and shrank back. "My Lady, it's not proper…" His voice was slightly high-pitched, not yet broken.

"Nonsense." An assertive Lyanna was certainly a force to be reckoned with. Ignoring the boy's slight whine of protest, she started unbinding the soaked linen. "You are our father's bannerman. Father said we must always extend the branch of hospitality to any bannermen in need."

The boy's look was quizzical. "You know me?"

"Yes, we met at a feast two winters ago. You do remember me, do you?"

"The She-wolf."

Lyanna looked quite pleased at the name. "You know me, but how about my brothers?"

The boy cocked his head. "My people also have names for them."

"The Wild Wolf." Brandon snorted.

"The Quiet Wolf." Eddard thought it was quite apt.

"The Pup."

"Hey!"

Brandon snorted again. "It's true though." Benjen threw his half-eaten lemon cake at him.

"Brothers, be civilised. Well, in my opinion, though the nicknames are quite well-done, proper introductions are still required. I'm Lyanna Stark," She curtseyed, "that's Brandon Stark," who gave a quick wave, "that's Eddard Stark," who nodded, "and that's Benjen Stark." Who refused to look at the boy.

"Benjen. Be nice." Lyanna's voice had an icy tone.

Benjen sheepishly said hi.

"Now," Lyanna rounded on the boy, blinking expectantly. "Will you introduce yourself?"

The boy's expression was almost if he could not decide whether he was intimidated or awestruck by Lyanna Stark. "Er...I'm Howland Reed. From Greywater Watch." He tilted his head, wondering whether the information provided was enough. "I'm...a crannogman."

"Cool! Do you guys really eat frogs?" Benjen's curiosity had apparently overcome his initial animosity.

"Benjen!"

"No, it's fine." Howland looked amused at the question. "And yes, we do eat frogs."

"Did you come with our Northern party?" Brandon asked, "I do not remember seeing you."

"No, I came alone."

"You mean your father does not know?"

Howland's look was slightly pleading.

Brandon let out a bark. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with us. We understand the need to sneak away from home once in awhile."

There was a short silence, with the only sound the scrapping of linen as Lyanna re-bandaged the wound.

"You coming to the feast?" Benjen asked.

"Feast?"

"Yeah. Gonna be a big one, in Harrenhal itself. In the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. Ethan said it could fit an army."

Brandon laughed, "It better be, because every noble has been invited. I daresay that's even larger than an army."

Eddard suddenly realized that Ashara Dayne would be there too.

Howland was hesitant. "I...was not invited."

"That's stupid," Lyanna asserted. "You are highborn and have as much right as anyone to attend. There, I'm done."

Howland flexed his tightly bound linen held up to the movement.

"Do you have another set of clothes?" Brandon cast a critical eye at Howland's ragged clothing.

The crannogman blushed and shook his head. His eyes suddenly widened in alarm. "My spear!"

"Relax, it's right here." Lyanna pointed to a strange three-pronged spear propped on the side of the tent. Howland visibly relaxed.

Casting an appraising gaze on Howland, who squirmed uncomfortably in response, Lyanna said, "Benjen, you two are almost of the same size. See if you can dig up something for him."

"Sure! Come to my tent!" Benjen grabbed onto Howland, who looked more than a little surprised at the turn of events.

"How about those squires? What do we do?" Brandon asked.

"We'll think of something. Right now, we need to prepare for the feast. As the token lady in our group, I'm going to take charge of everyone's attire. Brandon, I trust your fashion sense."

"Why thank you, little sis." Brandon flashed her a flirty smile.

"Flatterer." Lyanna had her hands on her hips. "Ned, I love you and all that, but are you truly planning on wearing that to the feast?"

Eddard looked down at his plain grey tunic. "Is there a problem?"

Lyanna glanced at Brandon. "I'll check on Benjen and Howland. Ned's your problem. Deal with it."

Brandon mock bowed. "Yes, madame. Come, brother. Though it will be hard work, once you're done with me, all ladies will beg you for one night of pleasure."

Eddard grumbled, "I'm not sure I want that," as they left Lyanna's tent.

Brandon cocked his brow, "How 'bout Ashara?"

Eddard thought it might be a good idea to try out some new clothes.

* * *

 **It's great fun writing the Starks. Brandon's the crazy irresponsible elder brother, Ned's the silent responsible brother, Lyanna's the sometimes mature, sometimes impulsive sister, and Benjen's the baby brother everyone else picks on. Just bestest family dynamics all round. And I can just feel Howland Reed's gonna be great fun too, as the know-nothing cousin from a distant land. Ned as a hopeless romantic who just wants to forget about it is incredibly amusing.**

 **My ideal Ashara Dayne would be the one on her Ice and Fire Wiki page, by** **Elena María Vacas, huge props to her. I mean like, wow, that's one girl I would love to date. Well yeah, personality is real important, but if we're talking about beauty, it's no wonder Eddard Stark is falling in love.**

 **Next chapter, the famous/infamous feast in which Brandon hooks Eddard up with Ashara and proceeds to have wild sex with her behind his brother's turned back. Not in this story folks, but it's gonna be the first momentous step for Eddard and Ashara. I just need to get this right, not only for you readers, but for my own conscience too. Wish me luck.**

 **Love from HK, thousand thanks for reading and please review!**


	6. A Feast

The doublet was stifling the life out of him. It was overly snug, uselessly over-elaborate, totally inappropriate and-"-makes you something to look at for once." Brandon said while tightening the girdle.

He stepped back and let out a wolf whistle. "Really, you look nice. I might even be willing to admit that you are my brother when we get to the feast."

"I can't even eat with the girdle suffocating my stomach." Eddard grumbled.

"That's because you're supposed to relax while wearing it. Think of it as a sword belt."

Eddard had to admit Brandon knew he was doing. The leather doublet he was wearing was black with, fittingly, a snarling wolf embroidered across the chest. The material was nice enough and was very form-fitting, at the expense of his lungs. Eddard was glad that Brandon had allowed him to keep his own dark-brownish leather gauntlets on. He had never liked showing skin.

"Of course, it wouldn't hurt to grow a beard like me. The rugged handsome look."

"Beards are messy and unappealing."

"Tell that to Barbrey Dustin," Brandon wagged his eyebrows, "She loved it when my beard touched-"

"I'm pretty sure I would regret hearing it so don't say another word." Lyanna had stuck her head into the tent. "You two done yet?"

"Patience, Lyanna." Brandon reached into his wooden chest. "I have just the thing for Ned to complete the collection."

* * *

Brandon was still chuckling when they had reached the stairs to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. "I can't believe you actually fell for that."

"I trusted you! Even Lyanna said you had fashion sense!"

"They are fashionable. Just not in Westeros. Pointed shoes with high heels are all the rage in the Free Cities."

"My feet nearly died!"

"Everything has a price. Trust me, people will do anything to look good. I've heard of magical rubies in Asshai that sustains one's youth. They say those who wear it can live hundreds of years without aging. Of course, our own Lyanna won't need that. She'll still have her wild seductive beauty even when she's old, wrinkly and half-dead."

"Was that meant as a compliment or an insult? Because you know I won't hesitate to push you off the stairs."

"Back off, both of you. We're representing our House here, if you remember."

Lyanna and Brandon smirked at each other, and chorused together, "Yes, Mama Ned."

Howland was busy gaping at the walls of Harrenhal to notice their bickering. Most of the exterior had been burnt black by the flames. Old Nan had said that dragonflame came from Hell itself, and the evidence to prove it could be found in Harrenhal. The rocks forming the towering battlements had been melted by the extreme heat, leaving smooth surfaces. Eddard stared at a strikingly obsidian pillar. It glistened in the moonlight, with blue flames flickering from its depths. Eddard blinked, and the flames disappeared.

And then the Hall of the Hundred Hearths beckoned. A blast of heat and noise and smell greeted the group as the guards pushed open the doors. Howland was visibly overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, taking two steps back. Brandon, on the other hand, cackled almost manically. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in glee. "Ah! Home at last."

Eddard narrowly avoided another drunk nobleman as he crashed into the bench. The feast had not yet begun, but many had already drunk themselves senseless from the pitchers of wine set on the long tables. Brandon navigated the mess ahead of him, well-versed in the art of surviving feasts unscathed. He truly understood the essence of feasts, as he jovially greeted friends, cordially exchanged words with lords, and playfully flirted with every woman in his presence, all the while leading his brothers and sister to their seats.

Eddard was happy to let Brandon do all the talking. He had never understood the allure of feasts. There was no place for quiet, stoic men in social events. Howland was even more discomfited by the sight of men slapping the buttocks of passing serving maids, closely following the heels of Eddard in front of him.

Their seats were just below the royal gallery. The king looked bored as he played with his spoon, his knife conspicuously absent. To his right, Oswell Whent in the seat of honour, followed by the other Whents. Eddard was surprised to see Rhaegar to Aerys' left, before being informed by Brandon that Queen Rhaella had not come to the Tourney. Next to her husband, Elia Martell was conversing with a servant, and further down sat Ashara Dayne. Eddard thought she looked positively radiant in her white dress, and was flustered when he noticed the plunge in front. When the Lady's gaze swept the Hall, Eddard quickly averted his to the finely embroidered tablecloth.

A Riverlord sat opposite to Eddard. They exchanged pleasantries, but as the conversation turned stale, Eddard fell silent, and the lord quickly turned his attention to his wife. Howland was faring even worse, sinking into his chair, eyes darting all over the place, refusing to look anyone in the eye. Even the gentle prodding of Lyanna could not overcome his obvious discomfort at his surroundings.

The synchronized banging of steel on the marble floor was heard over the resounding din. The Kingsguard stood in a line behind the king, stamping their armored feet on the ground. In an instance, the serving maids returned to the kitchens, and the drunkards were forcibly held down by their friends. Everyone had heard of what happened last summer, when a minstrel had ignored the king's call for silence. A final stamp, and nothing more was heard in the hall. Aerys rose from his seat.

"Friends! Loyal supporters of the Crown!" His voice rang clearly. "We are gathered here, for what can only be considered the greatest tourney of all time. Many thanks must be given to the esteemed Lord Walter Whent, for going to great expenses to set up this grand spectacle…"

A strong start, Eddard mused. He could understand why his father claimed Aerys had 'undeniable charm', even though that time had long past.

"...I am honoured to represent House Targaryen and the royal crown here at Harrenhal, a place where traitors were suitably punished." The Mad King's eye twitched. "Where are my dragons? Traitors... traitors all...kill them! Burn them all! In the name of the king!" Nobody moved. Aerys turned, and bellowed at the Kingsguard. "I said kill them all! Burn them! Now!"

The shortest of them all, who must have been the young Jamie Lannister, shifted his feet, but the all the other more seasoned members stood still.

Aerys whipped his head back at the seated guests. His mouth was wide open, yellow teeth and all, his hands shaking uncontrollably. His eyes bulged, violet irises dancing about erratically. A few ladies let out scandalized gasps.

A piece of cutlery fell to the ground. Aerys let out a surprised yelp at the metallic clang. He raised a quivering finger at the crowd. Nobody dared move. Eddard could not resist sneaking a glance at Ashara Dayne. Her head was bowed, hand tightly clasped with the Princesses' next to her. The well-practised neutral looks among the Royal party could only mean this was not a rare occurrence.

The quivering of Aerys' finger suddenly stopped. He slid, slowly, back and back and back, until he flopped down on his chair, a vacant gaze on his face. The raised arm retracted, wiping his face from top to bottom. His mouth quirked. Eddard realized he was trying hard not to laugh.

But he could not hold it. It started as a small chuckle, slowly raising in intensity. It evolved into a cruel laugh, a haughty and superior sound, then a full-blown maniacal cackle, his body writhing, the elaborate dragon-emblazoned crown crooked on his head. His last chortle was nearly childish, close to gleeful, eyes tearing up, hands slapping the armrests with joy. But his happiness went as soon as it had come, as Aerys sunk further into his chair, sullen, leering menacingly at the crowd.

Not a sound was heard. Benjen had opened his mouth, but was warned by Brandon with a look that could only mean, to quote the Sibling Tome on Nonverbal Communication, 'Thou shalt be still and silent'. Howland had literally disappeared underneath the table. The foolhardy craned their necks and half-stood to catch a glimpse of the Mad King himself, while those with stronger senses of self-preservation found their plates very, very interesting.

It was Rhaegar, the ever regal Rhaegar, who did his best when his father had lapsed. Composed and collected, he rose confidently and quickly from his seat. He looked at Aerys, silently asking for permission to speak. A moment of tension, when Aerys did not respond, but with a half-bored flick of the wrist, permission was granted.

Rhaegar's voice was a smoothing balm over the harshness of Aerys'. "Loyal patrons of the Crown, it is us, the Royal family who should be grateful and thankful for your participation of this grand tourney. We Targaryens have always valued strength above all, and where else can be find such a strong representation of unity and strength in all of Westeros? United as one, who can hope to match the Seven Kingdoms combined? With the finest knights and nobles gathered for this tourney, let our collective presence here show to all that we Westerosi are not to be trifled with!" He clenched his fist. The Hall erupted into a mash of stomping feet, clapping hands and yells of 'Hear, hear'.

Rhaegar smiled, and adopted a calmer tone. "At the same time, this Tourney is above all a representation of laughter and joy, of chivalric knights and lovely maidens. Tonight's feast is only the prelude of ten delightful days. I hope all seated will have a more than pleasant time here at Harrenhal. Now eat and be merry, for the feast now begins!"

Immediately after, servants and maids marched out in droves, bearing countless pewter platters of fowl, fish, game and fruit. A huge stuffed boar, apple in mouth, was placed in front of Aerys by six men, which of course led to the retelling of the well-known Crakehall and Fossoway joke to Howland, with the House Crakehall's coat of arms that of a boar and House Fossoway's a bright red apple. Lyanna took up some lampreys freshly caught from Gods Eye, while Brandon was already wolfishly tucking into his plate of green olives and black swan. Howland poked at the honeyed chicken suspiciously, with encouragement from Benjen, who himself had piled his plate full with gravy covered eel.

The Starks collectively agreed that the food was much better than those from Northern feasts, as they all munched on strawberry pie. Even Wyman Manderly, an avid lover of food, admitted that he had never witnessed such a variety of dishes in his whole life, when he passed by for a refill of plum wine. Howland was astonished at the wide range of fruit available. Nibbling on a pomegranate seed, he confessed to never have seen limes and blood oranges before.

As serving maids started to collect the dessert and fruit dishes, minstrels began to raise their voices, while acrobats carved out swatches of the floor for their gymnastics.

There was no need to set aside the long tables for dancing, with plenty of space left in the colossal hall. As soon as musicians started strumming their lutes and harps, young nobles and knights errant set about asking for dances from the many ladies-in-waiting. Some not so young, Eddard mused, as Walder Frey shuffled past in his quest for another wife.

Brandon sat up and brushed himself down. "Time for the never-ending fencing of sexes. Brothers, sister, ready to join me?"

Before the younger Starks could respond, the hall fell silent, dance pairs stopped in mid-step.. Rhaegar was gliding gracefully towards the mass of musicians, two dragon-emblazoned guards taking long strides to keep up with the Prince. He stopped in front of a young musician, who was either quivering with dread or excitement. The latter seemed more probable, with the look of awe on a face of not yet twenty summers. Inclining forward slightly, Rhaegar extended his arm, palm upwards. The musician immediately dropped to his knee, head bowed, harp held out in front of him. Rhaegar grasped the harp and sat down on an empty wooden chair, with the two guards standing on both sides. The musician bowed deeply and returned to his brethren, who closed ranks around their young member and twittered excitedly like little birds. The Targaryen strummed the harp experimentally, ignoring the crowd gathered around him.

Eddard was no connoisseur of music, but even he knew from Rhaegar's first few plucks that here was a man immensely talented in the arts. In the North, songs were more direct and blunt, like the sudden winds that brought with them swirling torrents of snow. Rhaegar's song were the gentle Southern breezes, caressing the leaves as they passed by. Most musicians behind the Prince had their eyes closed, the joy on their faces blissfully apparent. This continued for a while, and Eddard could see some of the more impatient lords were already breaking the spell of enchantment and twisting in their seats. But then Rhaegar added his voice to the music, and everyone was spellbound again.

It was a rich voice, a voice of strength and vulnerability at the same time. His harp play was smoothing, his crooning was melancholic. Eddard could not help but think of the story of the Sea King, who with all his mighty sorcery, could only watch helplessly as his kingdom submerged beneath the waves. There was no climax to the song, but an unyielding lament of sorrow, that rose and dropped with no end in sight. But it did end, and Rhaegar's voice echoed around the hall until the last note faded into the emptiness.

Sporadic clapping broke out, and Eddard raised his hands without thinking. He caught himself and let his arms fall on the table. Clapping seemed inappropriate for such a song. Most of the gathered seemed too entranced to even respond. Rhaegar rose, graceful as ever, his face strictly neutral. The harp was returned, and the young musician promptly fainted in the presence of the Prince. Many ladies in the crowd had also fainted long before the song's end, and smelling salts were brought out in full scale to revive the fallen.

Rheagar walked the full length of the hall to the royal gallery, where Aerys had most likely missed the whole performance as he continued sleeping in a most unnatural position. The Whents to the King's right were still in a state of shock, but the royal party, on the other hand, looked positively bored. The Princess from Dorne, who gave Rhaegar a tight smile when he sat down next to her, had to hold back her laughter when the Lady Dayne feigned sleep on her other side. Eddard thought the Lady looked even more ravishing with her eyes half-lidded. He could almost feel the heat coming from his cheeks. The redness only increased when he spotted Varys, the Master of Whisperers, staring at him intently. His powdered cheeks were pulled back as he smiled sickeningly, knowingly. Eddard wretched his gaze away from those laughing eyes.

He could see Lyanna out of the corner of his eye, sweet innocent Lyanna, rubbing her eyes with her hand. A drop escaped her attention and streaked down her cheek. Benjen had a malicious look in his eye as he leaned over, but Eddard was too slow to stop him.

"Oh, look what we have here! A crybaby who wails at every stupid love song!"

Lyanna glared at Benjen with her slightly red eyes. "The song had meaning, you prick. It wasn't even a love song!"

Benjen closed his eyes and wagged his tongue.

In a flash, Lyanna grabbed Eddard's goblet and deposited its contents on Benjen's head. Benjen could only open his mouth in shock as Lyanna poured every last drop of wine on him with a satisfying slosh.

Brandon almost fell out of his seat, slapping the table as he roared with laughter. Howland's face was quirked, plainly trying not to laugh out his friend out of loyalty. But even Eddard could not hold back a snort of laughter as he looked at poor Benjen, his once-in-a-lifetime immaculately styled hair destroyed in seconds by a simple cup of wine. Purple droplets dripped onto the table as Benjen tried his best to prop up the wet strands of hair clinging stubbornly to his face. Lyanna smirked in silence, smelling victory.

Brandon had calmed down at last to give both of them a stern lecture on behaving themselves in public. However, he was clearly trying hard to keep himself in check, as the corners of his lips upturned once in awhile. Thankfully, Benjen was still at the age of quick forgetfulness, while Lyanna was entirely capable of being a forgiving elder sister when she felt like it, and all was forgotten and forgiven.

By now, the dancing was at full swing, with more and more couples linking arms and heading towards the back of the hall. Robert Baratheon was clearly trying to be inconspicuous as he hovered around the Stark table, talking loudly with a bannerman about the merits of a war hammer. Even a blind man could see the constant and slightly anxious glances he cast at Lyanna. Eddard snorted. His best friend was obviously vying for the coveted first dance, even if their betrothal made it completely unnecessary for Robert to further engage in any shows of dominance. Sure enough, as soon as Benjen and Lyanna had said their apologies, Robert ghosted behind the Lady Stark and whispered intimately in her ear. Brandon bristled, and a spark of irritation passed by Lyanna's face. But Father had taught her well, and the easy smile prepared especially for foreign dignitaries was already firmly entrenched when she turned around to greet the Lord of the Stormlands. Brandon murmured under his breath, glaring darkly at their backs as they headed towards the dance floor. Eddard wanted to say something, but what could he say? Robert was just being...himself.

Brandon's dark mood was quickly forgotten when he turned back to the numerous maidens waiting for just the single chance to dance with the Wild Wolf. "Ladies, ladies, one at a time please…" He said as he stepped towards the dance floor, a flock, no, a horde of women following in his wake.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddard could see Benjen and Howland sneaking off towards a crowd gathering around a man dressed fully in black. Eddard felt a pang of sympathy for Benjen. It was often the sons lower in line who took the black and became members of the Night's Watch. Still, it was a reputable position; Benjen would be following the steps of many Starks, and to be sure many more after him.

To be honest, Eddard was feeling more sympathy for himself. Here he was, in what can only be considered the biggest tourney of all time, alone on the bench with only an empty cup of wine to keep him company. He felt even more pathetic when Ashara Dayne and her brother Arthur Dayne glided past, heading towards the dance floor. Eddard tried to convince himself that the Lady Dayne would only ignore him if he asked for a dance, but in his heart he knew that he would never have the courage to ask her anyway. So he sat, staring gloomily as the Sword of the Morning handed his sister over to Oberyn Martell for the next dance, knowing his turn would never come.


	7. A Hall

Eddard was miserable. It wasn't because there was nothing interesting going on. On the contrary, there was too much to take in. Joy and laughter filled the hall everywhere and anywhere, all except for a bench on which a certain Northman alone.

Robert, having finished his dance with Lyanna long ago, was engaged in a drinking contest with the former squire of Prince Rhaegar, Sir Richard Lonmouth. Ten jugs of sweet wine, each filled to the brim, were laid in parallel across the length of the table, the contestants on either side. Robert had already blazed his way through the first seven jugs, and was making quick work of the eighth. His Hugor's apple bobbed back and forth as the wine disappeared at an alarming pace. Sir Lonmouth was no puny man himself, but was clearly no match for Robert. Still, he was not a man to back down easily, and with the rambunctious and eager crowd around him edging him on, he dared not give up without a fight. At his sixth jug, but clearly struggling, Lonmouth refused to stop.

Robert was nearing victory as he downed his ninth cup. Raising his free arm and clenching his fist, the gesture of triumph whipped the crowd into a greater frenzy, with men already swarming around the Lord of Storm's End. The loud bang of an empty tenth jug on the table was met with a resounding roar, a mass of men and not a few ladies surging forward, clamouring to get a touch of the victor. Robert evaded them by vaulting over the table, and crushed his competitor in a bear hug, his hearty laughter booming across the hall. The red-faced Sir Lonmouth bore no shame, having downed no less than eight jugs of wine, and was laughing just as hard as Robert. Their guffawing added to the boisterous cheer of the crowd. The two unfinished jugs of wine went flying in the air, splattering the crowd with red.

In the darkest corner of the hall, with the fire in the closest brazier in its dying embers, a man wrapped in a black cloak sat on a plain wooden chair. A bunch of young ones had gathered expectantly around him, Benjen and Howland amongst them. The grizzled man was clearly a good storyteller, with the audience watching the man with rapt attention as his single gloved hand twisted and turned in the air. As the climax of the story approached, the onlookers oohed and aahed with increasing frequency. With a flourish, the man stood up, his cloak billowing around him. He reached up and unfastened the brooch holding the cloak around him, letting it fall to the ground in a pool of wool. And behold! His left sleeve was empty. But the man stood proudly - he was not ashamed of his impairment. Instead he stood taller than ever, his shadow stretching up to the heraldry hanging high on the inner walls. Though the reputation of the Night's Watch had diminished in recent years, its members were still treated with dignity and respect, those with battle scars doubly more so. And even from this far, Eddard could still see the spark of interest in his younger brother's eye.

His other siblings were all immersed in the chaos of the dance. Lyanna was happily twirling about in the hands of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard himself, Ser Gerold Hightower. The White Bull was surprisingly elegant on the floor, even with his gleaming silver armor on, leading Lyanna in a complicated dance routine. Her long dark brown hair whipped across his rugged and slightly wrinkled face, but he took it all in good nature and with a chuckle, lifted her up high above the crowd. Even far-away Eddard could hear Lyanna's shriek of delight. Next to them, Prince Rhaegar and his Princess seemed to be listening to a different song from the brisk one being played. Theirs was slow and deliberate, as they turned, turned and turned, completely in unison, a small olive-skinned hand held in a pale one. One had the impression that this was a dance they had danced for too many times.

And one mustn't forget the eldest brother. He was currently dancing with the buxom Janna Tyrell, sister of Mace Tyrell, who seemed more concentrated in trying to stuff her ample assets into Brandon's face than the actual dancing itself. It must also be noted that Brandon did nothing to disencourage her. And one cannot fail but to notice the multitude of ladies who had forcibly dragged their unwitting partners near to the pair, like vultures eyeing a piece of prime venison, all hoping that the next dance with Brandon Stark would be theirs.

Finally, after trying to distract himself with everything and anything, Eddard gave in and gazed upon the shining light that was Lady Dayne. Her current partner, the red-headed Jon Connington, was stiff and formal. He appeared all too disinterested in the beauty before him, and much more interested in the silver head of the Prince. But the Lady appeared none too concerned about the young Griffin's lack of interest, and even managed to coax out a tight smile from the dour head of House Connington as she said something, a teasing smile on her lips. Eddard wondered whether Connington had too much to drink. How could one not be struck by the allure of the Lady before him? The fleet-footed pace of the dance had brought out a rosy hue on her face, making her all the more enchanting and bewitching.

Eddard was miserable. It was miserable enough that he could only stare at her, and never feel her hands on his, or even talk to her in a dance. What made it even more miserable was the self-pity and self-loathing of a man who wanted something so dearly, but had the self-awareness to know that he would never have the courage to even attempt to reach out and grasp it. But damn it, if he could never muster up his nerve to ask her for a dance, he might as well just spend every single second of his time here blatantly gawking at Ashara Dayne. And that was what Eddard did, goggling fixedly at her to the point that when Brandon fended off the crowd of hysterical females to check on his younger siblings, he didn't even notice Brandon flopping onto the bench until he was poked in the ribs.

'Stop staring. It's impolite.'

Eddard grumbled under his breath. He knew that responding would only result in more unhelpful tips.

'Also, stop moping around and just ask her for the next dance. She can't refuse you - the Daynes are reputable, but we're too big a house for anyone to turn down.'

Eddard stared at the opposite wall resolutely. Didn't his brother understand the difference between the ability to do something and the actual action of doing? Of course he didn't - it's Brandon Stark for the Gods' sake. If there was a stone wall between him and his object of desire he would run straight into the wall and the wall would come off worse.

'Even if don't dance with Ashara Dayne, at least get your wretched arse up to dance with someone, for the love of the gods. There are more than enough comely ladies here - just pick one! Dance with Lyanna, for all I care!'

Eddard decided he was wrong. Brandon had even more unhelpful tips when one refused to respond.

'You know what, if you're not leaving the bench, I'll ask her for a dance.'

Eddard cocked an eyebrow at Brandon, and received a feral grin in reply.

'I know I told you I'll keep my hands off her for your sake, but if you're not making the most of opportunities handed to you, I might as well make a move. She's certainly a stunner, no doubt about that.' Brandon's appreciative gaze raked Lady Dayne from head to toe.

Eddard felt a stab of anger. He could hear his inner voice whining in protest. It was always Brandon, Brandon always gets the best toys, the best food, the best swords, the best girls...Never Eddard, always Brandon, Brandon, Brandon...Eddard pushed these thoughts back down. He felt slightly guilty for even having them. Like it or not, his brother was right. For all of his young life, Eddard had never been vocal about what he wanted. It definitely was not Brandon's fault, who would sometimes be more than willing to let Eddard have the pick of the crop. No, it was his own fault, for never being assertive, for never chasing after what he wished for. And now he wouldn't even fight for Ashara Dayne, who he wanted more than anything.

Eddard sighed in despair. 'Go. Ask the Lady-' He grimaced. He couldn't even say her name now. 'Ask her for a dance. I won't stop you. I'm not going to do anything anyway.'

'Are you sure?' There was genuine concern in Brandon's tone - a rarity.

'Yes, I'm sure.' Eddard was glad that his voice sounded so much more convincing than his thoughts. 'Go on. Shoo. I'll be perfectly fine over here.'

Brandon was silent for a moment. 'Well...if you say so, Ned.' Brandon reached over and grabbed Eddard's goblet of wine and took a huge gulp. 'Wish me luck.' Brandon winked and left the table, with a cunning smile on his face that Eddard did not like for one bit at all.

Eddard was still in semi-disbelief that Brandon would actually attempt to court the Lady Dayne, even after hearing his words to the contrary. For all his faults, Brandon Stark was always a person who put Stark interests first, especially those of his adored siblings. He would rather die than cause any tension between family. But there he was, meandering through the dancing couples, brushing off the attentions of several overeager ladies - by the gods, some must have lived past forty summers - and heading straight towards Ashara Dayne.

Jon Connington was easily persuaded to give up his partner - he seemed more than happy to escape from his dancing duties. For the nobility, dancing at feasts or other social events was considered to be the norm, and major families often had their own dancing instructors to prepare the children for participation on the dance floor. That didn't mean they had to like it, a sentiment that Lord Connington evidently shared with Eddard. So Connington graciously retreated from the floor, and Brandon Stark was left facing Ashara Dayne.

The only thing Eddard could see was Brandon's clasped hands behind his back. He craned his neck to try to discern what they were talking about - but it would be useless anyway. He couldn't lipread. It only took a short while before Brandon bowed to her and extended his hand. The Lady took his hand into hers.

Well, that was that. Eddard looked away. At least it was Brandon, he thought sourly. Better his brother than anyone else. He was so engrossed in his own dark thoughts that he felt the tap on his shoulder before he caught on to the overwhelming scent of exotic desert poppies.

Brandon gave Eddard a most annoying smirk. 'My Lady, my brother Eddard Stark. Eddard, this is -'

'Oh please, dispense with the pleasantries. If he requested me for a dance, I'm sure he knows my name.' Eddard's incredulous gaze was met by a pair of laughing violet eyes.

* * *

 **The term Adam's apple would never have appeared in Westeros, so I simply replaced the Biblical Adam with his Westerosi equivalent, Hugor of the Hill, the first King of the Andals.**

 **There is some discussion over the type of dancing in Westeros, as GRRM has focused more on the conversations during the dancing than the actual dancing itself. However, I think Tyrion and Sansa's wedding in A Storm of Swords rightly establishes that partner dancing is the norm in Westeros, which also makes sense in the case Brandon asking for a dance in Eddard's stead - why would you ask for a dance in a group dance?**

 **And yes, I'm alive, and I haven't abandoned the story yet, but the first year of uni has been very, very hectic, so no time at all for any writing. But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to finish this story. And uni has actually been helping me write the story, as there was one module on medieval history. I'm also planning to do a sequel about Robert's Rebellion (I believe my war scenes are much better than my romantic scenes), but let's just see how things go.**

 **Unfortunately, I've accidentally deleted most of my author's comments in the previous chapters, as I've been doing some minor editing of previous chapters, adding minor details and correcting anachronistic sayings. Still, you're not missing much from my comments anyway, so no big harm done. I would like to think the story flows a bit better now after editing.**

 **Lastly, thank you for all your reviews, favorites and follows, they really do push me to continue with the story and improve my writing. Even if you're just reading, thank you for taking your precious time to read my poor work!**


	8. An Invitation

It was fair to say Eddard had little experience in interacting with members of the other sex. He was only comfortable around family and friends - a very, very limited circle in which he could truly be himself. Making small talk with anyone out of this circle made him stiff and uneasy, a situation not helped by the ladies themselves, with their giggles and coy looks that they would like to think as flirtatious, but in reality only inducing in Eddard an overriding desire to flee the scene.

How he wished he had paid more attention to Brandon, when the eldest brother was trying to give him some advice on approaching the ladies. Not that it was all valid, mind - his first piece of advice was to 'stick it where it matters' - but when faced with this stunning beauty, even bad advice was better than no advice.

Eddard started to rise - Gods above, who knew getting your feet out from under the table would be that difficult - and had to awkwardly step over the bench before he could properly stand straight up. He hoped that weren't any crumbs on his tunic or face. If only that idiot brother of his, with his stupid grin permanently stuck on his face, could have had the decency to inform him before bringing Lady Dayne over. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to give his brother a very grateful hug or kick him in the arse. The sheer audacity of his act, of asking the hand of most reputable lady on the floor, not for himself by for a younger brother, just reeked of arrogance and self-confidence. Eddard wished he had a sliver of that confidence. And he was indeed extremely grateful to Brandon - only a loving and sympathetic brother would have understood and gone to extreme lengths to compensate for Eddard's natural shyness. But it still meant Eddard was going to choke Brandon to death after this. The eldest of the Starks knew well enough that besides talking to women, Eddard's second greatest fear was surprises. And to say dancing with Ashara Dayne was a surprise would be a big understatement.

She was even more breathtaking up close. There was a very faint hint of rouge spread across the cheeks, the only sign of makeup. Her black hair was slightly tangled from the dancing, some strands falling over her bare shoulders. The flowing dress she wore was so white, Eddard would have sworn it was glowing. Her violet eyes were piercing, but not sharp, appraising, but not cautious. And those lips! A man could go insane upon seeing the full red lips of Ashara Dayne. There was a challenging smirk on her face, causing Eddard to flush with embarrassment. Needing a brother to ask a lady for a dance was highly unorthodox, if not downright ludicrous. It was a miracle itself that the Lady Dayne was not insulted by the offer. It was quite a mortifying situation for Eddard. He shuffled his feet. Try as he might, he could not meet her eyes. Nor could he open his mouth to say something, anything. There was an awkward silence between the three. Eddard shot Brandon a panicked look. He received an exasperated one in return, along with a hand gesture that could only mean 'say something or I will gut you later'.

'He isn't very talkative, is he?' Ashara Dayne's smirk had turned into a mischievous smile.

'I'm afraid so. He's the quiet one in the family.' Brandon had given up on making hand gestures behind the Lady's back and had a slightly pained look on his face. Nothing was worse than seeing a sibling being embarrassed in front of a crush.

'Don't worry, I like the quiet ones.' Seeing the surprised look on Eddard's face, she added, 'My brother is considered the most quiet person in all of Dorne, and I still love him dearly. I'm sure we can get along just fine.' She extended her hand. 'Shall we dance?'

Eddard's eyebrows shot up, as did Brandon's. In Westeros, it was always men who first offered to dance. Evidently things were different in Dorne. Eddard's eyes flitted up to the Lady Dayne's face. Was she so irritated with his hesitancy that she had to offer her hand? No, Ashara Dayne looked as radiant and happy as ever, if not slightly amused by the situation. When their eyes met, Eddard quickly looked back down to her hand. 'Please, my lord, I'm not that scary, am I? It is only dancing, and I promise I don't bite.'

Eddard could feel his cheeks heating up. Nothing was worse than being called out for cowardice, and by a lady no less. Well, he had no shame left, and might as well do one dance before running away in embarrassment. Was he supposed to say something fancy before accepting her hand? He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything, and quickly closed it. Fuck it, Eddard thought, he was just going to grab her hand and be done with it. He reached out, and suddenly realised how clammy his hand was. Should he retract his hand and wipe it? No, his treacherous hand was already out, and he didn't want to cause any further embarrassment to myself. He placed his hand on top of hers, wincing at how warm and soft her hand was in comparison.

The Lady Dayne wrapped her supple fingers around his, and gently, but surely, tugged Eddard towards the masses swirling around in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. Eddard was sure his face had turned beet red, which was most definitely not helped by the open guffawing of Brandon behind his back. But, even through his discomfort, Eddard could appreciate the grand spectacle in front of him. The grandest nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, all dressed in their finest, dancing around in their own circles, a maze of bright colors, sharp tunics and trailing dresses assaulting the eyes. The Lady Dayne stopped tugging him along when they neared the edge of this man-made storm of colors. 'We will join in when the next song starts.'

Eddard nodded mutely. He pointedly looked forward as they stood shoulder to shoulder, and an awkward silence descended. The current song was clearly not ending quick enough for Eddard's liking. It was the Lady Dayne, again, who had to take the initiative. 'Have you done any dancing up North, my lord?'

Eddard considered what he should say. Yes, he did take dancing classes with his siblings, but he was never good at it. He was good at remembering the steps, but in actual application, he was always too stiff, too wooden. As usual, Brandon was much better. And yes, he did dance sometimes in festivities up North and in the Vale, but always forced, never willingly. Dancing was not something he particularly enjoyed. 'Yes, but...I'm not very good at it.'

Ashara Dayne laughed prettily. ' Everyone says that before a dance. I trust you will do perfectly fine on the floor.'

She clearly took his words the wrong way, and Eddard hastily tried to clarify, 'No, my lady, I assure you, I am not good at dancing.'

'Oh, please, you don't need to be so humble. I know a bad dancer when I see one. As a matter-of-fact, do you know him?'

'Ser Stannis? Yes, I do know him. I am friendly with his brother, Lord Robert.'

'Well, Ser Stannis is the worst dancer I have ever danced with. Not that he's bad technically - in fact, he might be the best technical dancer out there tonight. The reason why Ser Stannis is a bad dancer is that he views it as a chore - he never talks to his partner, never smiles at his partner, never even looks at his partner. Dancing is not only about the dance, but also the interaction between the paired couple. I can tell from just looking, you are no Stannis. You are young, and you are nervous, that is all,' The Lady Dayne said with a self-deprecating smile, 'I am unfortunately known to have that effect.'

Eddard grimaced. He was definitely in the mould of Ser Stannis Baratheon - even worse, he was as bad in dance as in conversation. She would give up on him in disgust halfway through the first dance.

But there was no time for Eddard to make up an excuse and leave - the dance was ending. Once more, Ashara Dayne tugged him towards the cauldron of dancers. They stopped near the centre of the mass, the Lady Dayne turning around to face him. Even though everything around him reeked of sweat, he could still smell a slight trace of lavender coming from the Lady as she took his other hand. Her violet eyes glanced up, full of sparkle. 'Now, my lord, shall we actually dance?'

* * *

 **I am so very, very sorry for the extremely late update. But as always, real life comes first and second year in university is much harder than first year. I honestly was seriously tempted to give up on this story, but I promised myself at the start that I would finish what I start, and I will keep this promise. The updates will continue to be slow, but I will finish this story, whether it takes one year or ten years. Thank you for all the love you have shown to the story, it really motivates me to continue. As usual, feel free to comment on any ideas, mistakes, or problems with the story. Once again, sorry for my lateness, and hope you enjoy the story.**


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